sailors dont make good partners

i just had a nightmare with you in it, just a character in the story, never the monster. when i woke up the first reaction was to text you, 

only to be met by the "we should end things," that in my sleepy state ive forgotten.

well worded, good points, kindness laced in every word. 

how could i expect anything less than that from you.

a bruise scar thing on my thigh, the constant mundane texts, the painting i took down, the shirt that still smells like you, your vape on my night stand, texting you i got home safe, did i ever tell you that now seals are the first thing i doodle on the corner of each page. you were intertwined in my routine. 

i wonder what will happen to the crocheted seal on your key board. unlike you im not good with my words so instead i always said 'i think youre swell.' in the knots of fabric.

i can handle pain, but i feel myself clinging on, using every ounce of strength in my body to not claw my nails into your back and tell you to stay, please don't leave me, that any ounce of your skin makes me feel more comfort than none at all.

but that's cruel to you. and i fear ive already caused you enough grief.

this is hardly poetry written in tears its more of an explanation as to why the slut became celibate. to why i look so sleep deprived. to why you will no longer be my tuesday night plans.

i used to write about laying in bed of seafoam, drowned in pleasure, gripping onto tanned skin.

now all thats left is the comfort that maybe you'll change your mind and maybe we wont touch but just talk. just anything but this silence that you used to fill.

or that maybe we both will move to better things, and once again cross paths in a decade or so. not as lovers but old friends from a more desperate time. because i'd be able to see your smile lines, the freckles lining your cheeks, and those kind eyes of blue, and not feel an ounce of regret or an burning in my chest.

but for now i'll try to rewrite my routine